Eighteen hours after the breakup, Sebastian left the operating room and called me of his own accord for the first time.

All he heard was a recorded voice telling him my phone was switched off.

Frowning slightly, he opened our messaging app.

[Have you changed the dressing on your wrist?]

But when he sent the message, a notification appeared.

[You can no longer message this contact.]

I had removed him.

The unease he had been suppressing began to spread.

He found Tessa's number and called.

She took a long time to answer.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Hale?” Her voice was icy.

“Is Sophie with you? Why is her phone off?” At last, he couldn't quite conceal his agitation.

Tessa gave a cold laugh.

“Now you remember to look for her? You're too late.”

“She's gone. Somewhere you'll never find her, and don't deserve to.”

She hung up.

Sebastian stood still, listening to the dead line.

Then he tore the stethoscope from his neck, grabbed his keys, and rushed out.

The black Volvo cut through the nighttime traffic and pulled up beneath the apartment building.

He practically ran into the elevator and unlocked the apartment with his fingerprint.

The moment the door opened, emptiness struck him like a blast of cold air.

My slippers and heels were gone from the entryway.

The soft rug where I liked to sit had been taken away. There were no cushions I'd left on the couch, no hair clip tossed on the coffee table.

The workbench on the balcony was empty.

The colorful fragrance bottles, scent strips, droppers, and notebooks had all disappeared.

Even the fragrance in the air had gone with me.

The apartment looked the way it had when he first moved in.

Minimal. Stark. Gray and white.

Like a show apartment no one had ever lived in.

He stood in the doorway and slowly removed his glasses.

His vision blurred.

He braced a hand against a cold cabinet door, his knuckles whitening as his tall body gradually bowed.

Only now could he admit it.

I hadn't threatened to leave because I was angry.

I truly didn't want him anymore.

For the next three days and nights, Sebastian behaved as though he'd lost his mind.

He didn't go home. He took one surgery after another.

At four in the morning, the harsh white surgical lights cut through the air.

“Needle holder. Suture.”

His voice came through his blue mask, low and cold, with an authority no one questioned.

The scrub nurse immediately placed the instruments in his palm.

His long, pale fingers moved swiftly. Tie. Cut.

A quiet click marked the final, flawless stitch.

The difficult operation had lasted thirteen hours. Even the second assistant could barely stand, but Sebastian remained straight-backed. Only his slightly labored breathing betrayed his exhaustion.

“Good work.”

He left them with those two words and turned toward the automatic doors.

At the sink, cold water washed over the bloodstained gloves.

He removed the gloves and mask, revealing a striking face.

Silver-rimmed glasses sat on his straight nose. Behind them, his dark eyes were deep and detached, as though nothing could disturb him.

Now, though, they were frighteningly bloodshot, with heavy bruised shadows beneath them.

The second assistant followed him out, watching his pale-knuckled grip on the sink.

“Dr. Hale... please get some sleep.”

Sebastian had always been known as the hospital's work machine. These last three days, he seemed determined to work himself to death.

He had endured stomach cramps and finished the operation on painkillers.

“No need.”

He straightened and briskly dried his hands.

Tilting his head slightly, he swallowed down the raw, metallic taste of exhaustion.

Back in his office, he left the main light off.

By the faint glow from the corridor, he found a white pill bottle in a drawer, shook out two tablets, and swallowed them dry.

A sharp spasm twisted through his stomach.

He frowned, pressed a hand against it, then sank back into the chair and closed his eyes.

In the dim light, a crack finally appeared in his cold expression.

Only physical pain could fill the hollow ache he couldn't put into words.

The quiet lasted less than five minutes.

The internal phone shrilled on his desk.

Sebastian opened his eyes and answered. The exhaustion vanished beneath the familiar, reassuring chill of his professionalism.

“Emergency department calling. Multiple-vehicle collision on the southern expressway. The patient's vitals are highly unstable. We need an urgent consultation.”

“On my way.”

He hung up, grabbed his white coat, and stood.

Striding out, he became the almost ruthlessly composed Dr. Hale again.

“Tell the first surgical team to prepare. Do we have the patient's details?”

The charge nurse hurried beside him.

“Yes. A young woman. The name on her identification is Sophie Sutton.”

It was as though a thousand thunderclaps exploded inside his skull.

He stopped dead.

For the first time in public, his aloof, unshakable face showed naked devastation.

“Say that again.” His voice was ruined. “Who's in there?”

Alarmed by his bloodshot stare, the nurse checked the chart.

“Sophie Sutton. The accident happened on her way to Logan Airport.”